


Drawing from Memory

by battle_cat



Series: Fury Road Ficlets [12]
Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Originally Posted on Tumblr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-14
Updated: 2016-11-14
Packaged: 2018-08-31 01:37:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8558152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/battle_cat/pseuds/battle_cat
Summary: For the prompt "Paint me": Max/Furiosa.





	

So few people use paper for writing these days that when she finds the sheaf of crumpled sheets in his bag she assumes they’re kindling. Something to stuff into the toe of a threadbare boot or jam a bullet hole in the door shut against the wind.

She pays them no mind, shoving them aside as her flesh hand settles on the small box that contains the sharp needle and the thread you can use for sutures.

Max is passed out in the Interceptor’s passenger seat, blood soaking through the hasty dressing covering the knife slash on his abdomen. The knife-wielder and all his compatriots are dead, and he’d insisted it wasn’t deep, but then she’d barely been able to get him to the car. He stays mercifully unconscious while she sanitizes and sutures, wraps a clean bandage around the gash. He moans vaguely when she wipes a cool cloth over his sweaty face and neck, but doesn’t wake.

It’s when she’s putting the supplies away that she notices there’s writing on the paper. No, not quite–drawing. The outline of a long-fingered hand catches her eye.

The area they’re parked in seems deserted enough that she’s willing to let Max sleep for a while. She takes her rifle and goes to sit on the roof to keep watch, and for reasons she can’t quite fathom, she grabs the sheaf of paper out of his pack and tucks it in her pocket.

She feels slightly guilty–Max has so few things, and he still has a scavenger’s territorial insecurity about them–but curiosity wins out.

It’s quiet on top of the car. They have a forbidding wall of rock at their backs and good visibility in every other direction. In between scanning the horizon she takes the lump of paper out of her pocket and unfolds it.

The pages are leaf-thin and charred along one edge. They’re clearly from some book from Before, covered in tiny lines of printed writing, a long list of names next to strings of numbers that mean nothing to her.

She can’t tell what Max has been drawing with, but it doesn’t look like his own blood, so that’s a step in the right direction at least. The drawings aren’t full human forms, but bits of them: a hand on a wheel, the curve of a raised bicep and shoulder, what looks like an unfinished sketch of a sharp jawline and long neck. There are pages where he drew the same feature over and over again, making tiny adjustments, trying to get something right.

It’s not until she comes across the one of a short-haired figure lying curled on her side under a blanket that she realizes they’re pictures of her.

She’s just starting to leaf through them when Max gives a startled grunt and then a sharp whine of pain from inside the car.

“I’m here.” She waves her metal hand through the window while hastily stuffing the drawings back into her pocket. Clambers down from the roof with what she hopes is a reasonably composed expression on her face.

“Wasn’t…’s shallow as I thought,” Max slurs when she slides into the driver’s seat next to him.

“It was not.” She hands him a canteen and he sips gingerly.

“We should move on a bit. Not push our luck here,” she says. He nods.

She bends forward to hit the killswitches under the dash and the sheaf of paper tumbles out of her pocket, landing half-unfolded between them. She sees his eyes follow it, then flick to her. He’s pale with blood loss but she thinks she can see a slight flush creep into his cheeks.

“I–I’m sorry.” She picks up the papers and stuffs them hastily into his bag. “I shouldn’t have looked.”

He shakes his head. “‘S okay.” He shifts a little in his seat, a pained grimace flicking across his face before he can hide it. “Just…worry sometimes. I’ll forget you. When I’m…” He gestures vaguely to the desert around them.

She leans over, close enough to swipe the sweaty hair off his brow. “I’m right here.”


End file.
